


Ace

by half_sleeping



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Gen, More of a Takao character study, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 14:24:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2625056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/half_sleeping/pseuds/half_sleeping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“Teikou today, huh?” Takao says, stripping off his shirt in the locker room as the basketball team changes for practice. “Why’d we even bother showing up?”<br/></p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	Ace

**Author's Note:**

> The first entry of the OTP5 challenge for MidoTaka. Also for [takaoweek](http://takaoweek.tumblr.com/) on tumbr.

“Teikou today, huh?” Takao says, stripping off his shirt in the locker room as the basketball team changes for practice. “Why’d we even bother showing up?”

Nervous laughter ripples through the room, but it dies down fast as the coach enters, looking tense.

“Takao,” says their coach seriously. “We’re going to be counting on you in this match.”

Takao salutes his teammates. He’s nothing special, but they stare at him like he’s the best they’ve got, just because he has the bravest face on of all of them.

That’s kind of true, if Takao thinks about it. It’s not like they’re aiming for Nationals or anything, but they’re not _pathetic_. Their school makes it to district prelims all the time. Takao sure as hell isn’t their worst player, by a long shot. And he’s not going to be today.

The Teikou players arrive right on time, filing in an orderly line behind their coach. Some of their matching basketball shoes, blue and shining white, are so new they squeak.

“I don’t think they look that tough,” says Takao, looking them over. None of the Generation of Miracles seem to be present, but even the reserve players at a school like Teikou are going to be a tough match.

They’re probably not going to win. Takao’s teammates steel themselves, however, and their captain talks in an encouraging tone about how they shouldn’t give up yet and to look on today’s match as the learning experience it’s supposed to be. The Teikou players look tough, but they can take them on!

And then Midorima Shintarou walks in.

Takao recognizes him from the eight thousand articles Basketball Monthly has run on the Generation of Miracles. He’s also the only one out of the famous five to have glasses, which helps. Midorima’s three-pointer field goal percentage last tournament was eighty percent. That’s insane. That’s unbelievable. But the rest of the stats bear this out: they call him the Miracle Shooter, which is the kind of overblown nickname Takao had no idea existed outside of shounen manga. It’s too hilarious. That nickname doesn’t match the other boy’s face at all, with its serious gaze, its unsmiling mouth.

He’s so _tall_.

None of the other Teikou students speak to him as he divests himself of his bag. In fact, a small space seems to form around him as they move to give him room. Their coach walks up to him and speaks to him quietly.

Midorima looks across the court at them. Takao realises that his whole team has formed into a defensive huddle behind the home bench, as though this is going to protect them in any way.

Midorima takes a place on the bench. He’s not starting in the match.

His teammates breathe sighs of relief, but for some reason, this irritates Takao. They’re not good enough for mr big-shot genius athlete? If he doesn’t intend to play, why is he even here?

Then Takao looks at the Teikou players who _do_ step onto the court, the way their eyes flick back to the bench, and adds it up.

Midorima Shintarou is here in case the second-string screw up. But their famous regular hasn’t even taken off his jacket. He doesn’t think he’s going to need to step in. Midorima’s not even looking at Takao’s team now: he’s examining his nails intensely.

The rush of anger Takao feels at this is so hot it sears his throat shut. “Guys,” he says, forcing his voice past that knot, and has to repeat himself before his team hears him. “Guys. Look, those starters are just the second-string or something. They’re not going to be on his level. We can beat _them_. We just need to keep the match going long enough-” _long enough to make them send him in_ , Takao means.

His teammates look at him and then at each other. They nod emphatically. They can do this. They will do this. Teikou- Midorima Shintarou- is going to regret underestimating them.

.0.

They lose. In the third quarter, Midorima Shintarou enters the game. They’d already been losing, and losing badly. Despite the newness of their basketball shoes, Teikou’s second-string are no slouches: they play hard and they play well.

Nothing changed after Midorima’s entry. They weren't going to win from the start. Takao wasn't stupid enough to expect it, not after all that. They weren't- they were never going to be-

They’d never had a chance.

When they line up after the game, Takao is the one stuck shaking Midorima Shintarou’s hand, and his fingers tremble as Midorima murmurs a meaningless thank-you. If Takao couldn’t see it himself, he would think that Midorima hadn’t sweated all match.

Midorima Shintarou's famous, famous three-pointer. It had seemed as though the ball couldn't possibly go in, over and over again as the game wore on and surely, surely, a mortal like the rest of them would have tired or slowed and started to miss. But he did not. As the court had begun to blur before Takao's eyes he could only turn his head to watch that inevitable descent, that awful arc to victory. He had watched it fall and prayed that it would not go in, even as Midorima turned his back on them and prepared for the ball to come back into play.

Who had Takao been praying to? What answer did he expect?

They weren't good enough anyway, from the start.

.0.

The team goes through the motions of attending club and practicing for tournaments until- and it’s an indescribable relief- they’re knocked out of the summer tournament by another team that promptly loses in the next round. They don’t cry, though they see other teams bawling in the corridors of the stadium, faces buried in shoulders that shudder beneath their tears.

Takao produces a joke he doesn’t remember before they split up to go home. Something about what they’re all feeling, how this team is the lucky one, really, for getting out while the going’s good. They smile, but uncomfortably. Teikou is racking up scores so unbelievable people wince when they see the tournament results posted. Takao’s team doesn’t keep up any more, since now they don’t have to. No more poring over the newest Basketball Monthly, gossiping between classes.

They just want to put this behind them as soon as possible.

The captain is the first to say it, as they prepare to hand over the club to their second-years. “I thinking of going to B High,” he says, casually. “Anyone seen the numbers for that one? How’re their exams?”

“How’s their team?” Takao asks, mechanically. His shoes look too clean, but he’s growing out of them already. He expected to be wearing them longer. They’re handing over the club today, then going out for cake. “Anyone looked up the Kings?”

“C’mon,” says the person standing two down from Takao, sounding bitter, defeated, _weak_. “We’re not going to make the team in places like that anyway. Why bother asking?”

Takao’s head comes up, slowly, like a hawk sighting prey. Everyone is silent.

“Actually,” the captain says. Takao hears an unfamiliar note, a dead tone, in his voice, looks at him. “About teams, I might not end up going with basketball in high school.”

“Oh,” says Takao. Everyone around them is _still_ silent, and that _oh_ ripples right through the room.

The captain shrugs a little. “Gotta think about these things,” he says. “I mean, it’s time, right?”

Takao shrugs in his turn and lets him pretend they were talking about the nerdery of prepping for entrance exams in June.

One by one they tell Takao, _no_ , _probably not, I don’t think so_ , and _well, it was time, anyway_. None of them say to each other, _so what the hell was the point of all this anyway_ , but Takao thinks it, over and over again until it’s pounding through his head. He replays that match, every moment that he could have done something and didn’t, every move he could never have done in a thousand years. He doodles Midorima Shintarou’s name over notepaper, and reads article after article, searching through back issues of basketball magazines for ones he’s missed.

It doesn’t stop. He’s retired from the club and they’re done with basketball, done with practice, done with the Generation of Miracles, done with everything, done done done done _done_.

What if Takao doesn’t want to be done with Midorima Shintarou?

.0.

When his mom comes down the stairs to start breakfast and sees him chewing down on his fourth bowl of protein powder-spiked bowl of cereal, she just sighs.

“We’re out of milk,” Takao says.

“You’re going to ruin your breakfast,” she says, stifling a yawn.

“Growing boy,” Takao says. “I’m in the middle of another spurt.” He is, too. Two more centimeters this month.

“What time did you get up?” she asks, checking the rice cooker to make sure he hasn’t consumed _that_.

“Early,” says Takao. She sighs again.

It’s a little ironic. They never had morning practice when the club was actually running, or if they did, Takao can’t remember ever actually attending. But his renewed training schedule is going to pay off in sweat and blood.

“I don’t think it’s good for you to be doing this every day,” she says. “I mean, I know you want to train, but you have to draw the line somewhere. Are you getting enough sleep?”

Takao chews. Every time his alarm rings, Takao barely gets out of bed. Only the thought of missed training, hours gone to waste, drags his body out the door. He runs until he can’t breathe, trains until the ball slips out of his hands.

“Sure,” he says. Upstairs, Dad is just running his sister through her own morning routine: once the water stops running, he can go shower and change for school.

His mom squints at him like she knows he’s lying. “You’d better not be messing up your studies,” she warns. “That’s the reason you _quit_ the clubs, you know.” There’s a question in her eyes. Her boy is no fool, but his mother is fond, not deluded. She knows that there’s a limit to what Takao can do.

“I know,” says Takao. “I’m studying.” He is. The best schools of the best aren’t going to scout someone like him. He has to get in the normal way. It’s only a threefold increase in his study load. He leaves his bowl in the sink and swings himself up the stairs. “Gonna shower!” he calls over his shoulder.

“Check if your sister is ready or needs help with her hair,” she says, and goes back to frying eggs.

.0.

Getting into Shuutoku is the fresh start Takao’s been waiting for. A top team, just waiting for him to make his mark on it. He can do this, he’s trained nearly a year to be good enough for them. Even if he doesn’t get in as a first-year, Takao is prepared to play the long game: Midorima Shintarou will still be out there in two years, one. His old teammates offer their congratulations and name their schools, but as they promised, they’re not aiming for despair.

The new jacket, stiff with starch chafes at his throat. They’re strict here at Shuutoku. Their coach has been building Shuutoku’s basketball program for a decade, and everywhere, Takao sees the history that the school prides itself on. If there wasn’t so much spirit, the place would just be run-down.

Takao’s eyes actually pass over him several times before Takao processes what he sees.

Midorima Shintarou is here, face serious, eyes focused forward and _so tall_ , unmistakable among the new students lined up in neat rows.

He’s here.

Of all the places. Of all the schools.

He’s here.

.0.

Takao walks away from his introduction to Midorima Shintarou with a distinct sense of anticlimax, a crick in his neck, and a stitch in his side.

Basketball Monthly didn’t report that Midorima Shintarou is heading to Shuutoku High. Takao knows: the first thing he did when he was done with his string of entrance exams to schools with top-class basketball teams was to crack open his saved stack of magazines and breathe deeply of their sweet sweet recreational frivolity.

Too funny. He’s really as humorless as he looks. What’s with that tape dispenser? Does he really talk like that? How can he seriously go around with tape on his fingers all the time?

Midorima really doesn’t… not even a little bit… remember Takao.

Takao started out expecting Midorima to not remember him, after all.

Takao started out with no expectations at all.

Not that he lets it get to him. There’s a lot of things happening in a new school with a new club, and Coach Nakatani runs them full-tilt from the start. Once the crowd of incoming freshmen have been cut in half - Takao is pretty certain there isn’t as vicious a rate of herd loss in the Serengeti- the regular selection games begin.

“Guess we’re up next!” Takao says cheerfully to Midorima. Midorima goes slightly cross-eyed when Takao talks to him, but this is both nothing new and nothing personal. Midorima is standoffish with all the freshman and most of the seniors and he has no patience with jokes or small talk. Probably Takao’s declaration-of-war, which still scorches across Takao's brain, didn’t help. “I’ll be passing to you, Shin-chan!” Okay, maybe _something_ personal.

“I will be making shots,” says Midorima.

“Of course you will,” says Takao. Of course he will. “You’ll be in my care!”

Midorima turns away without answering. The consensus among the first-years is that they don’t even know why Coach is bothering to put Midorima into these games: if it wasn’t obvious before that he was going to be a regular, it’s pounded into them with every perfect three-pointer, every effortless steal and every flawlessly executed play. There are some seniors who can, working together, just about manage to not embarrass themselves in a game against Midorima.

Takao is not going to embarrass himself now. They’re all deathly aware of Nakatani’s gaze on the game, and the tension is running high.

It’s four reversals, maybe five, before Takao realises he’s memorised the music of Midorima’s basketball, the cadence of his steps, and it is _paying off_. Just by being a half-step behind him, suddenly Takao’s game is looking better than ever, shaving seconds off their possession time.

The score is 7-10 and it’s been fifteen minutes. These things only last twenty, ticking down inexorably on the giant plastic score clock some seniors are managing. Takao scoops up a fumble from a second-year point guard, dips his head, getting fancy- and crosses the pass to Midorima.

It goes wide. Just a slip too far, but it goes wide, and Takao knows before it’s fully left his fingers that he’s missed, he’s flubbed it, and he shifts his weight to chase after the ball -

Midorima catches the pass, and goes instantly into a three-pointer. Takao has to replay the moment four, ten, fifteen times until he realises how the other boy managed to change his trajectory in split seconds, before Takao even knew he had made a mistake.

Midorima was ready for Takao to slip up, and ready to cover for him. Seamless, unyielding. He’d thought Takao wouldn’t be able to make it from the start.

He’d been right.

Damn it. _Damn it_.

“Nice pass,” calls a shaved-headed senior, which is nice of him. Takao waves and gets back into position to get the ball.

It’s not a good game, overall. They’re playing on the half-court and the bulk of them were tired from the hell that Shuutoku’s basketball club calls warm-up. And even though their side won, Takao fumbled more than once: the ball moves fast and the seniors on the other team knew how to work together. It wasn’t a good game, except that whenever Midorima was exerting himself to catch Takao’s passes, it’s beautiful, sweet music. The seniors don’t miss, either, but they don’t move like that. Like _that_.

Like Midorima.

“You can keep trying all you want,” shouty and scary Miyaji-sempai tells him. “You’re not going to make him drop dead with your mind. We’ve all tried.”

Takao starts. “Oh, you know,” he says. Midorima pats his neck delicately with a towel, hovering over his lucky item. Today it’s a yellow carnation in a slim plastic vase, tall and proud. “If at first you don’t succeed.”

“Nice,” says Miyaji-sempai almost dreamily, and stalks off to shout at some other first-years.

Coach doesn’t give them time to rest. He calls out various numbers, and sets them onto another mini-game, while those who just finished a game groan dramatically. “You think you’re going to have time to catch your breath during the tournament?” he says. “If you think you can just have a replacement come on, obviously you think you can be replaced.” Midorima is one of those called. Takao is not.

 _Midorima_ doesn’t look tired. _Midorima_ can’t be replaced.

Takao gets up, finds a ball, and goes to do drills on the free half-court. Some seniors are already there. If he can’t get into a game now, at least he can keep himself busy until Coach calls him onto the court.

.0.

Takao hangs over the window ledge looking into 1-A in a position of dejected sadness. “Oi, Midorima,” he says.

Midorima pauses in the middle of unwrapping his lunch, and says, “What.”

“Let’s go eat together,” Takao says, waving his sad cafeteria-bought bread. Midorima’s eating alone, as usual. Takao walks past this classroom every day to get back to his own after lunch, so he knows, because of course he always looks in on Midorima's class, of course.

MIdorima frowns at him. “Go back to your own class,” he says. “I don't need company.”

“Well I don’t really have anyone to have lunch with either,” says Takao, which is a lie, but not much of one. Outside of the basketball club, Takao just really doesn’t have anything much to talk about. It’s incredibly sad.

Ignoring Midorima’s narrowed stare of censure, Takao pulls up a chair and plants his elbows on Midorima’s desk, shoving aside the freakishly neat arrangement of pencil box, pencil, mechanical pencil, eraser and three pens in black, blue-black and blue. Midorima only just rescues today’s solar-powered calculator lucky item before it falls off his desk.

“So!” says Takao. He takes a big bite, and chews.

“So,” says Midorima, who has the effrontery to look like he hates his life. He murmurs a greeting to his lunch before digging in. It looks amazing. Takao hates Midorima even more already. He’s getting that out of intruding on Midorima’s lunch, if nothing else. Takao will run an extra km tonight on that rush.

“Soooo,” says Takao. He cracks open the straw and stabs his milk.

“So?” says Midorima.

Takao realises it’s all up to him to teach Midorima how ‘hu-mans’ interact. “Who do you think is going to become a regular?” he says. There. That’s safe, isn’t it?

And if Midorima has anything useful to offer Takao about that, that’s just a plus.

Midorima pauses in the middle of coaxing two pieces of stewed carrot apart. “Me,” he says.

“...and?” Takao says.

“And whoever else Coach sees fit to appoint,” says Midorima.

Takao puts his head on the desk. “You know what I _mean_.”

“I do,” says Midorima. “But I fail to see the point of pointless speculation when you should be aware that the decision rests with Coach Nakatani, and the only thing you can do to change it is the only thing you are doing- putting your full effort towards making the team.”

“You said point twice,” says Takao.

“I was emphasising,” says Midorima. “The bell is about to ring, I advise you to return to your classroom.”

“Shin-chan, that was completely unhelpful,” says Takao, getting up. “Good-bye.”

“See you at practice,” says Midorima, pointedly rearranging his stationary on his desk.

.0.

“Wait,” says Takao. “Wait, _wait_. You said 'are' at lunch! You think I’m doing the right thing to get on the team!”

Midorima, mid-shot, waits for it to swish and _thunk_ before he replies, turning to get another ball. “Did you come over just to say that?” he says. “I thought you stayed back to do extra practice, not bother me. For once.”

“I’m not bothering you,” Takao protests. It’s kind of true, of course. Midorima, who tries harder than anyone else, is a great motivating force. As long as Midorima is still shooting, Takao can’t pass out mid-stride just yet.

“What are you doing now, then?” says Midorima.

“A guy can’t take a break?” Takao demands. “We’ve been at this for hours, you know.”

Midorima looks at the gym clock. “I still have twenty minutes of shooting practice,” he says. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” says Takao, grins at him. “Just wanted to say I heard it.”

“Your concentration on the trivial does you credit,” says Midorima, with what he almost certainly means to be biting sarcasm.

Takao is still smiling as he gets back to work, and he doesn’t pass out mid-stride, just yet.

.0.

Since it’s better than literally nothing, Takao is once again hanging out at lunch with Midorima- if you can call leaning on the wall helping Midorima hold his frog lucky item while the other boy counts out change for the vending machine hanging out, which Takao supposes he has to now- when Coach walks past and Midorima requests his attention.

“Yes?” says Nakatani.

"I would like to be excused from practice later today," says Midorima.         

Coach looks at him. Coach does this a lot, Takao notices. So do the sempai, as though waiting will make Midorima any more clear or any less irritating.

Under Coach’s flat stare, Midorima cracks first, which never works for the sempai. “I wish to observe a practice match taking place at Kaijou High.”

Kise Ryouta.

"A match with one of the Generation of Miracles?" says Takao. The words come out of his mouth before he knows what he’s saying. If it’s _them_ , Midorima cares. Of course he does. "Wow, I'd want to get in on that too." He slaps Midorima on the lower back. “Excited, Shin-chan?”

Midorima's mouth thins, and he casts an affronted look at Takao. “I wish to use my selfish request,” he says to Coach with an air of finality.

Coach processes the request. Takao imagines a little hourglass turning over in Nakatani’s head.

"Fine," says Coach. "Takao, you go with him."

Takao sputters. What the what? "But training- he says. "But practice-"

"You can always run there," says Nakatani, with deceptive mildness.

Midorima shakes his head. "Kaijou High is too far," he says. "We will never get there in time."

As if the timing was the only thing wrong with that suggestion! Midorima's unbelievable.

"Certainly," says Nakatani. "In that case, since Takao-kun is so concerned with his lost training, I suggest borrowing the rickshaw from the janitor. The stamina training will do you good." 

For a moment, Takao can't believe his ears. "We're... going?" he says.

"You've used up your selfish requests for the _week,_ " says Nakatani to Midorima. "Return the cart back to the groundskeeper when you are finished with it."

"Of course," says Midorima. "Thank you, Coach."

Takao is left there by them, and actually stands there looking at both their receding backs until he realises how stupid it looks and runs after Midorima.

"Oi, Shin-chan," says Takao, running to catch up. "Are we really skipping practice just to go watch a practice match? Seriously?"

"You said you wanted to see it," says Midorima, mildly puzzled. "Consider it your opportunity to watch Kise in action."

“And we’re really going to take this- thing?” says Takao.

“You do need it,” says Midorima. “The stamina training.”

It’s the way he says it, Takao decides. As though Midorima’s opinion is unvarnished fact.

“We’ll play for it,” he snaps. “Rock, paper-”

“I win,” says Midorima.

“Two out of three!” says Takao.

“I win,” says Midorima.

“Three out of-”

“I’m going to keep winning, as should be perfectly obvious,” says Midorima, as Takao lowers his latest rock, his fist shaking. Midorima climbs into the back of the cart, and after a bit of shifting to accommodate his unfairly long legs, settles down in perfect comfort.

Takao gives up and looks at the bicycle. It’s old and rusted in parts, but it’s not going to fall apart beneath him.

...yeah, that’s about as far as Takao is going to get with this thing. It creaks when he gets on it, but the pedals turn easily enough. Midorima’s dead weight, however, is another matter. And it’s all muscle, _all of it_.

“At the junction, we’re going to try again,” Takao says. He has to live through today. He wants to live through today.

“Which junction,” says Midorima, as though it’s a matter of purely academic interest.

“The next one,” says Takao.

“As should be perfectly obvious, I’m going to-” starts Midorima.

“Fine, _fine_ ,” whines Takao. “But we’re going to switch, you get that? We’re definitely going to switch.”

.0.

"You don't just want to see Kise playing, do you?” says Takao, four junctions and two losses later.

“...what makes you think that?” says Midorima. “Why can’t I go watch them if I want to?”

“Um, that?” says Takao. Midorima’s so _obvious_.

“Doesn’t count,” says Midorima. Takao can hear him scowling and adjusting his glasses.

"You said 'them'," explains Takao patiently, thinking over junction three and loss two. "But you said we'd be watching Kise. Not Kaijou. So when you say ‘them’ you have to mean someone not Kaijou whom Kise is playing with, who can only be a player from this other school they're having the match with."

There's dead silence from behind, as though Midorima is the only one allowed to be right about anything.

"A-anyway, I don't see how that's any of your business," says Midorima, in a huff.

"Of course it is," says Takao. "I'm going to this match, aren't I?"

"You decided to come along all by yourself," says Midorima.

"Oh come on," Takao moans. "You're already making me cycle this damn thing, you might as well bother to explain why you're doing it. It's not like I won't find out once we get there anyway."

Yet more silence. Takao contemplates his life choices, the burn in his calves, Midorima’s unexpectedly flexible way of contorting himself to fit into the rickshaw. He almost misses Midorima’s reply.

"Seirin High," says Midorima. "I'm interested in the match Kise is going to have with Seirin High."

.0.

Predictably, they miss the match with Seirin High.

"If your stamina was in better condition we would have made much better time," says Midorima.

"Or if _you_ had taken over, you know, _at any time,_ " snaps Takao. The cycling is easier now. The evening is cool and they don’t have a deadline to keep this time. Midorima feels like he’s doubled in weight, though. Maybe it’s all that red bean soup Midorima made Takao buy to bribe him into participating in more fruitless rock-paper-scissors matches.

Midorima makes a noise that sounds exactly like a shrug.

“Why’d we even go, anyway,” grumbles Takao.

“I wanted to see the match that Kaijou would have with Seirin High,” repeats Midorima.

“...and?” says Takao.

“And you really have awful stamina, it’s been less than two hours each way, and you’re completely worn out.”

“Stalling,” says Takao. “And unkind.”

"I advise you continue to utilize this conveyance," says Midorima. "Your speed is barely adequate as it is, and it will suffer from your lack of stamina if you do not address the problem."

Barely adequate. Takao doesn't flip Midorima off, but only because if he takes his hand off the handlebars, this heap of junk is going to veer into traffic and kill them both.

“And you’re going to continue sitting in the back, are you?” he says.

“If it will help you, certainly,” Midorima says.

“And if I pass out, you’ll die too,” says Takao.

“If that helps,” Midorima says. “Certainly.”

“Wait, wait,” says Takao, trying to squint over his shoulder. “Are you joking? Was that a joke? Shin-chan, did you seriously-”

“Don’t call me Shin-chan,” says Midorima, the rays of evening sun glinting off his spectacle frame.

.0.

His mom manages to keep a straight face when he brings the rickshaw- and, glory of glories, Midorima- home, but just barely.

“I suppose you save on bus fare,” she says, doubtfully. “I hope it’s safe for your friend, dear.”

“And that,” Takao says, “is definitely your fault, Shin-chan! My own mother thinks I’m weird now.”

“She has no cause to worry,” replies Midorima. “I am perfectly comfortable.”

Takao rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I have to hurry today, so if you’re banged around just hold on,” he says. “Coach has that early meeting today, you know.”

“Yes,” Midorima responds. “I understand that he means to name the regulars for the Interhigh.”

Takao slams on the brakes. “Shin-chan!” he says, impressed. “You know something I didn’t tell you! You must be getting along better with the club now!”

Midorima utters a noise of scorn. “Anyone would know, idiot,” he says. “It’s about time, too. He has certainly observed us for long enough.”

“How are you going to cope with the nervousness?” asks Takao solicitously. “Shin-chan, if you don’t make it, you mustn’t feel bad, ok? There’ll be lots of other chances.”

“I wouldn’t know,” says Midorima. “I entered Teikou’s first-string upon the first ranking test on the first day and was made a regular shortly after.”

“Prestigious schools are really different,” Takao remarks, and cycles on, on, through the feeling of dread in his stomach, clutching at the handlebars with sweaty palms.

.0.

“When your name is called, come forward to receive your uniform,” says Nakatani. The terrorized faces of his basketball club abound. “Your sizes were taken from your jersey sizes already on record.” He continues to lecture them on the procedure, though none of them can stop staring at the boxes he has behind him, newly opened with plastic sticking out. One box for orange, and one for white.

“Ootsubo,” says Nakatani, and the captain steps up, demonstrating to them the procedure for getting your uniform without embarrassing yourself or instantly ripping it open to breathe in that sweet sweet just-printed plastic smell of success. He bows briefly and then returns to his place Among Them. That signals the end of the formalities: now they’re onto the real show.

“Kimura Shinsuke,” says Nakatani. “Five.”

Kimura-sempai- the nice shaved-head dude- does a fist pump and gets slapped on the back as he steps forward. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.

“Midorima Shintarou,” says Nakatani. “Number six.”

Midorima nods and steps forward. The rate of clapping slows noticeably, but doesn’t die out completely. There’s something very reassuring about that back, those hands.

Nakatani keeps calling people. Third-years, mostly. Miyaji-sempai gets a whoop from the back of the crowd- his brother- and the applause comes back in full force for them. They’ve earned their place. Midorima returns to the crowd and continues to clap honour-student style, prepared to go on forever. Takao looks up at his face, and knows that Shin-chan never expected any other outcome.

Half the regular slots are gone now. No surprises so far. Takao squeezes his eyes shut and bounces on the balls of his feet and almost misses it when Nakatani says, “Takao Kazunari. Ten.”

Takao looks up. Someone to the left says, “-a first year-’ and then is quickly drowned out by the swell of applause, and the roaring in Takao’s ears. Someone- hopefully someone else- claps Takao on the back, hard.

“Number ten,” repeats Nakatani. “Takao Kazunari.”

Takao thinks that Midorima’s patting him on the back too, but instead that remorseless hand takes a firm hold of Takao’s shoulder and shoves him forward to receive his jersey. Nakatani hands the plastic-wrapped package to Takao without betraying a hint of impatience. “We’ll be counting on you,” Coach says.

Takao clutches the uniforms and somehow, doesn’t cry. He turns and looks out at Shuutoku’s basketball club.

Takao is the second and only other first-year who’s become a regular. A couple of third-year point guards look bitterly disappointed, but clap gamely along with the rest.

He stumbles back into the crowd and lines up next to Midorima, who says “Congratulations,” like he means it. Takao is smiling, suddenly, grinning all over his face and he can’t stop.

“I guess I’ll be counting on you this year, Shin-chan,” says Takao.

“Of course you will,” says Midorima, wrapped fingers flexing. He adds, almost as though he means _this_ , “I’ll be counting on you, as well.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> The uh. The meaning of the yellow carnation is apparently _you have disappointed me_.


End file.
